Early on, Romanian philosopher E.M. Cioran found:
“…philosophy is no help at all, and offers absolutely no answers. So I turned to poetry and literature, where I found no answers either, but states of mind analogous to my own.”
His book is a collection of aphorisms, an atemporal catalogue of various temperaments. Hardboiled fragments of a mind discomfortingly able to discern the process of its own miserable decay.
“I do not forgive myself for being born. It is as if, creeping into this world, I had profaned a mystery, betrayed some momentous pledge, committed a fault of nameless gravity. Yet in a less assured mood, birth seems a calamity I would be miserable not having known.”